CHAPTER ONE: FLOUR
Jade took her first bite of a greasy bacon cheeseburger that was so thick she could barely hold it in her hands, leaned back against the button tufted camel leather booth, and gave me a satisfied nod.
“Mmph.”
“Right?”
“Mhmm. Reminds me of a place back home,” she expressed through a garbled mouthful, as she continued chomping.
Jade Miller was a Seattle native, and decidedly nowhere near home. We were at Remedy Diner, a Lower East Side favorite, and a six hour flight from whatever Pike Place Market eatery she was referring to.
She looked out the window at nothing in particular and began swaying in her seat, like she had invisible headphones on and was vibing to a catchy tune.
She would sometimes sway and hum when eating something particularly enjoyable, and I’m not sure she even realized she was doing it, but I did. I noticed every little thing Jade did.
Of all the inexplicably fantastic things that had happened to me over the past year and a half, meeting Jade was both the most inexplicable and the most fantastic.
She was also the most recent. I had known her for all of three months, but our chemistry was undeniable and comically intense.
I was thirty-five and had never felt that way about another human being in my life, albeit for two main reasons: For one, she was my first legitimate girlfriend, as fucking sad as that was; and two, she was out of my league in ways that would visibly confuse strangers.
Walking down the street with her, it was not uncommon to see men and women alike doing the “How-the-fuck-did-he-get-her” math in their heads. Even in a city as open-minded and progressive as New York was, our pairing was a mind fuck, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them. She was pale and tall - significantly taller than I was - and thick. An absolute statue of a woman, with a platinum blonde tousled bob to boot. I was brown and skinny. We were physical opposites, and at least on paper, didn’t make sense.
She turned from the window to look back at me, and the harsh light of the afternoon sun made her Complete Heterochromia more pronounced. She had a blue eye and a hazel one, and when the sun hit the latter, it made it look golden. She told me it was an insecurity of hers growing up, but that she had learned to love it. When I first complimented her on them, she jokingly asked me which eye I liked more. When I told her I couldn’t decide because they were both beautiful, she called me a “fucking lame ass.”
That’s who she was. She was decisive and confident, and demanded that in others. In her mind, being diplomatic about fucking eye color, of all things, was lame, and I learned quickly to cut that shit out. From then on, anytime I had to make a decision, or draw a line in the sand somewhere with her, I did it, and she respected me for it.
“What happened, I have something on my face?,” she asked, as she wiped her mouth with a napkin, and I realized I had been awkwardly staring at her for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking you” is what I wanted to say, but instead, I settled for “Your eye’s looking real golden today.”
“Ah. Male gaze stuff,” she replied sarcastically and disinterested, almost as if she was disappointed she didn’t have something gross hanging from her face.
“You know, a lot of women feel wanted and desired when their men get lost in their eyes. Or, you know, eye, in this case. It’s supposed to be flattering.”
She dropped her burger in dramatic fashion and rested the back of her hand against her forehead.
“Ugh, so hot. I’ve got the vapors! Take me right here, baby. Right here, right now, on this goddamned table!”
“Fine. I’ll stop looking at you with the insatiable, fiery passion of a lover possessed.”
“Thank you. Literally all I ask.”
We would banter like that often, but I could tell there was some truth in jest. As much as she appreciated the primal lust I had for her, I sometimes got the impression that she worried that’s all it was for me. I never thought I’d be in a relationship where I’d have to temper my physical attraction to my partner, but here we were.
To be fair though, she became my girlfriend only after my ascent to minor celebrity status and subsequent financial success, so I had concerns of my own regarding the legitimacy of our relationship.
Neither one of us voiced those concerns though, as we were very much still in the honeymoon phase, and why ruin good sex and playful banter with serious, uncomfortable, potentially devastating discussions?
She grabbed a pickle spear from her plate and wiggled it at me.
“Sweet Boy, ya done good.”
“Sweet Boy” was her nickname for me, after it became abundantly clear that although I was older than her by a few years, and living a newfound interesting life, her experiences dwarfed mine, and I was a relatively sheltered man by comparison. She (mostly) found my occasional naïveté adorable, and “Sweet Boy” became a term of endearment.
I realize it sounds like we’re headed towards manic pixie dream girl territory here with the way I’m describing Jade, so let me stop fawning over her like I’m a virginal teenager for one second and clear some things up.
Jade is an autonomous, flawed human being with her own wants and desires, like every other person who’s ever existed in human history. She’s not a formulaic, highly-sexualized, lazily-written plot device created solely to help me, the protagonist, get to where I need to go. This story is not about an unrealistically perfect woman out of my league who, through quirky, not-like-the-other-girls charm and amazing sex, leads me on a path of emotional growth and self-fulfillment.
Having said that - in addition to Jade Miller being an autonomous, flawed human being with her own wants and desires, she was also a free-spirited, super cool fucking chick, with a love for horror movies, a dark sense of humor, and an ass juicier than the burger she was currently noshing on. And okay, sure, we also had amazing sex, and she did help me grow as a person, but she wasn’t a manic pixie dream girl. I promise.
“Yeah, it’s awesome. There’s this Mexican place in Brooklyn I gotta take you to also. Oxomoco. Holy shit.”
She giggled.
“What?”
“You’re such a fucking anomaly, dude. Like, who are you?”
“How?”
“So, you’re Puerto Rican, but you don’t like Puerto Rican food—
“Am I automatically supposed to?”
“But you love Mexican food…”
“They’re two completely different types of cuisine, so yes.”
“And your name is fucking…Diego Cardoza, but you don’t speak any Spanish…”
“Didn’t realize my name implied that I should...”
“And you were nominated for like, Best New Hispanic Author or something you were telling me.”
“I didn’t even put in for that—I don’t know how I got nominated. That was weird.”
“And here I am, couldn’t be whiter, and I’m more fluent in Spanish than you are. I actually like Puerto Rican food…”
“So, what are you saying? That you’re more Hispanic than I am?”
“I mean, I’m just saying. Had I written your book, I would’ve won that fucking Hispanic author award.”
“Well, here’s an award for you - Best New Appropriator. How’s that?”
She dropped the burger again, and giggled uncontrollably, covering her mouth so as not to spit any food in my direction.
“Come on, dude. Your name is Diego. You look like a fucking telenovela heartthrob. It’s just funny that between the two of us, I’m the one who speaks Spanish.”
“Hmm. A telenovela heartthrob, you say?”
“Sí.”
“You know what I think? I think I’ve got more of a Gomez Addams thing going on,” I replied, trying to keep things light, despite feeling a little annoyed that my Hispanic bona fides were being questioned.
It was bad enough when fellow Hispanics saw me as a whitewashed sellout and shamed me for not embracing my roots. It was worse when a blonde white woman was mocking me for it, but once again, why disrupt the playful banter and good sex ecosystem?
“Ha. Well, him and Morticia are couples goals for sure.”
“And you’re certainly pale and gothic enough to fit the part.”
“Oh! Speaking of horror shit - any ideas yet for the next book?”
Fuck. I was trying my best not to think about that.
“No.”
“When’s your deadline again?”
“They want the first chapter by next month.”
“Oof. Well, you’ll come up with something. No pressure.”
“Yeah…”
“Couldn’t you just write a sequel? That’s what people want anyway.”
She was asking about a possible follow-up to Sanguinary Lust, the erotic horror novel I had written that became a film, earned me a big payday, and was more or less responsible for the existence of our relationship. For a variety of reasons I’ll get into later, that wasn’t a viable option for me.
“I guess I could…but I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Her thick, dark brown eyebrows always made her facial expressions look more dramatic and serious than she was actually being. She didn’t mean any harm, but it felt like I was being interrogated.
“There’s nothing left to explore there. Everything I wanted and needed to say was said already. The characters and their stories are done. It was always gonna be a one time thing. I’ve moved on from that world. If I were to write a sequel, it would read like a hollow, shameless cash grab, and I don’t want to taint the integrity of my work like that.”
More giggles from Jade.
“Hilarious, I know.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just when you go like full, pretentious artist, you get so intense. It always throws me off.”
“So, to recap; you don’t want me to look at you with lust in my eyes, I’m not authentically Hispanic enough for you, and you think my art is pretentious?”
“Mmm. More or less, yeah.”
“So, why are you with me?”
“Obviously for your restaurant recommendations.”
She always landed the final blow. All I could do was appreciate the burn, accept defeat, and laugh it off.
She took the last bite of her burger and gave me a thumbs up and a wink.
“Let’s do that Mexican place tomorrow.”
“Anything for you, Morticia,” I replied, as I signaled for the check and she scrolled through her phone.
“Ohhh what?! Fuck me!,” she yelled at her screen.
“What happened?”
“My building has no water, apparently. I had to shower before work too. Jesus fuck.”
“Ahh shit.”
“Maybe I can—ugh, no. I have to shower,” she continued, as she gave her armpits a quick sniff.
“I’m so gross.”
“I like it when you’re gross,” I replied, being extremely unhelpful.
She shot daggers at me with her different colored eyes and those dramatically fierce eyebrows.
“Yeah, I know - because you’re a sick fuck,” she said exasperated, as she typed frantically on her phone.
“You can shower at my place.”
“Oh my god, duh! Sweet Boy in the clutch! Love that for me.”
I picked up the check and off we were, to my Greenwich Village brownstone a twenty minute walk away.
“Ugh, so fucking gross,” Jade complained, as we walked through the swampy late June New York City air. Summers in the city were unbearable, and obviously more so underground. Subways were not an option. Walking was always better, no matter the humidity.
“It doesn’t help that you refuse to wear anything but black.”
“I’m cultivating an image, okay? Superheroes have iconic, instantly recognizable costumes, I don’t see why I can’t have the same.”
She wasn’t kidding. For as long as I had known her (which, again, wasn’t very long), Jade had worn the same exact outfit almost every day, regardless of weather: A black t-shirt, black distressed jeans, and a pair of black and white chucks. Paired with the blackwork tattoo sleeve she had on her left arm, she was the quintessential goth girl. Or, in her mind, an aspiring goth superhero.
“If you had a superpower, what would it be?”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t already have one…”
“Mine would be mind control.”
“Ew. Creepy.”
“Why is it that creepy?”
“You wanna control everyone’s thoughts? That’s not creepy?”
“I mean, I’d be able to stop wars, end racism—
“Yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t abuse your power for selfish reasons.”
“You know, I’m beginning to think you don’t like me very much.”
“If only you could control my thoughts and change that…”
“Well, what would yours be?”
“Easy. Teleportation.”
“Lame.”
“Traveling anywhere in the world in a split second is lame? Not only is it not lame, but without the need for transportation, you’d save on fossil fuels. It’s very green.”
“Traveling isn’t lame. Traveling alone is lame. What’s the point of teleportation if you can’t bring someone along for the ride?”
“Sometimes you just need to get away, Sweet Boy…”
We got to my brownstone and she ran upstairs and began stripping immediately, kicking off her sneakers and wiggling out of her jeans.
“Showering. Booo,” I jeered sarcastically, playing up the fact that I loved her natural scent on a very primal level, and had mentioned that to her on more than one occasion.
“Shut up,” she giggled, as she pulled her grey hipsters down and threw them at me.
“Enjoy,” she continued, as she jumped into the bathroom.
I walked into my office and opened my laptop to the same blank document that had been blank for a week now. I didn’t even have a name for my next book, and my publishing agent was expecting something concrete in just three weeks. I sat in front of the screen, staring through it, trying to will a title onto the page and wishing I did have mind control powers in that moment, so that I could use them on myself and come up with something. Or use them on my agent to push the date back.
Instinctively, I took a whiff of Jade’s panties that I was unknowingly still clutching in my hands, as if my subconscious was looking for something comforting and familiar to alleviate my stress. The top note was considerably musky, like an armpit, but underneath it, a sweet and salty tang, like a dirty margarita.
I realize that describing the scent of my partner’s sweaty vagina like it’s a perfume comes across as cringey, poorly-written erotica, but given everything that happened shortly after that day, I needed a tether to reality.
The only reason I’m writing this book is to figure out what the fuck happened, where it all went wrong, and how much of it was actually real.
The burger at the diner was real. Jades dirty panties were real. So far, so good.
Jade walked in and caught me sniffing absentmindedly.
“Haha, oh my god you’re actually enjoying them. I was being sarcastic, you know.”
“I’m hooked! I can’t stop!,” I teased, taking an exaggerated whiff for comedic effect.
“Ahh. That’s the stuff.”
She raised an eyebrow and grinned curiously before taking them from me and giving them a whiff of her own. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head with a confused smile.
“I don’t get it, but hey, as long as you’re happy...”
She put on one of my t-shirts and wiggled back into her distressed jeans, this time without her hipsters, and held a finger to her lips.
“Shhh. Our little secret,” she whispered, as she made her way back downstairs.
“I think we should move in together,” she announced both abruptly and casually, as we made our way to the stoop.
“Huh? Yeah?”
“Right? I mean, why not?,” she continued, as if she had just suggested getting tacos together, and not, in fact, drastically changing the nature of our relationship.
The “why not” was very obvious. We had only known each other for twelve weeks. This is how Jade operated, though. She would often ask a question that seemed ridiculous on its face with a deadpan delivery, then follow it up with a “Right?,” to further normalize the ridiculousness, and immediately put you on the defense.
It was hard to determine if she had just come up with that idea on the fly, or if she had been thinking about it for some time. Was the current lack of running water in her building the catalyst? Or had she been thinking about this for a while? Either way, it was a bomb that she was very obviously trying to pretend was not a bomb.
“Uhh, ha. I mean, yeah, I gue—
“Then you can smell me twenty-four seven.”
“Haha. Yeah. That’s true,” I replied, officially ignoring the bomb as well. I pondered if maybe her scent had some sort of hypnotic effect on me. It would explain a lot. Maybe her used panties were a trojan horse.
She gave me a hug and started the fifteen minute walk to her job at the tattoo shop where we had met just a mere few months ago.
I closed the door, and made my way back upstairs, standing just outside my office like I was afraid to enter it, and stared across the room at the blank screen on my laptop that was taunting me once again. Then I stared at the huge poster hanging above it. It was the minimalist cover of Sanguinary Lust; a deep red blood stain shaped like the silhouette of a woman, against an all white background.
For all its simplicity, that cover represented my entire life. The fame, the subsequent fortune, the brownstone I resided in, the woman I was sleeping with and soon to be living with - it all came from that book. It was surreal.
Never would I have imagined that the same thing that gave me life would also destroy it.